Blowhards and Bafflegab

Ah, gatherings—those strange social rituals designed to remind people like me why I prefer one-on-one conversations. But, a lifetime ago, there I was, in West Perth, at a small gathering of about 20-25 people, mingling in someone’s lounge, where the drinks flowed and pretences soared. Now, generally, I’m content on the sidelines, observing the spectacle of human behaviour from a comfortable distance. But then I noticed something intriguing.

At one end of the lounge, there was a huddle of people—about a dozen—gazing, mouths agape, at a guy who was clearly holding court. You could practically feel the aura of intellectual smugness radiating from him. I’m not usually one to care about these things, but curiosity got the better of me. Must be important stuff, I thought, as I edged closer, squeezing myself into the worshipful circle of information-starved puppies to catch a bit of this intellectual magic.

So I listened. And listened. And listened some more. Fifteen minutes in, and I still had no clue what he was talking about. The man, an apparent university graduate (oh, he made that clear, trust me), seemed to be pontificating on…well, something grand, judging by the furrowed brows and nods of his disciples. I kept listening, hoping for a nugget of coherence, but he seemed intent on stringing together words that sounded deeply profound but amounted to an impressive heap of nothing.

My favourite part? The people around him, looking entranced, nodding along as if he was revealing the secrets of the universe. But here’s the thing: I’d bet good money that not a single one of them knew what on earth he was going on about, either. They were simply transfixed, hypnotised by a symphony of jargon that was all wind and piss—an empty vessel clanging loudly.

Eventually, I had to make a strategic exit before I lost my mind entirely. I muttered some excuse and left the circle, leaving the ego parade to carry on without me. It was either that or risk an aneurysm trying to decipher the riddle of his verbal onslaught. People like that, I’ve decided, are a bit like those decorative fountains you see in hotel lobbies—designed to impress, full of noise and spectacle, but ultimately pointless.

And there you have it: an evening with a bona fide intellectual blowhard. They’re a rare breed, but they pop up at parties now and then, filling the air with all their eloquent nonsense. Next time, I think I’ll save myself the trouble and find the nearest wallflower.